


Brooding Strangers

by Pennfana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Crossover, Gen, Humour, actually it's definitely more than a little out of character, probably more than a little out of character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennfana/pseuds/Pennfana
Summary: On a dark, stormy, unlikely night, two brooding wanderers desire the same thing... the only corner seat in a tiny town's tavern.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Brooding Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am not comfortable with leaving my works without at least a cursory disclaimer: the characters in this story are not mine. They belong to their respective creators, one of whom is long dead, so in that case, that character belongs to his family. I was simply inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr today. I am not receiving any financial compensation for this work.

Who cared what time it was? It was dark. The rain poured down upon him and dripped off the front of his hair and down onto his face, forming a tiny river that, gathering water from many sources, felt like a miniature waterfall dripping off of the end of his long nose. Guiding his horse into the village—yet another tiny, muddy outpost in the middle of the forest—he located what appeared to be the settlement’s appropriately tiny, muddy tavern.

The man got his horse settled in at the tiny, muddy stable; there was only one other horse there, and, judging from the pungent wet horse smell that saturated the air, it couldn’t have been there long. And then, as the rain poured down and a well-timed nearby crack of lightning momentarily brightened the sky with a boom of thunder soon after, Geralt of Rivia dramatically flung open the tiny tavern’s (fortunately not-tiny) door, banging it against the wall.

“Oi, captain broody-face, what’s with the drama? Just _open_ the bloody door like normal folks.” The tavern-keeper, drying a tankard with a dish towel, glared at him.

“Beer,” Geralt growled, tossing a coin to the barman, who promptly filled the tankard and slid it down the bar. Catching it just before it slid off the edge, Geralt brooded his way over to the only corner table in the tavern.

There was already somebody sitting at it. _Damn, this is awkward,_ he thought, considering the stranger.

Not, of course, that there was a great deal to consider. It was a shape, really, more than a man; a shadow in a hood, smoking a pipe with a long stalk. Occasionally, the coals in his pipe nearly illuminated his face; then, Geralt could make out little more than a scraggly beard. The hood, he noticed, seemed to be watching him.

“I’m sitting down,” he grumbled. The hooded man simply nodded. Geralt pulled up a chair and sat, drinking in silence.

“Of all the empty tables in the tavern, you had to sit with me,” the man rumbled curiously. Geralt choked on his beer in surprise.

“It was the only corner table,” he sulked. The man nodded again.

For many long minutes, the men sat in sullen silence, smoking and sipping. Eventually, the hooded man threw a coin over to the barman, who lobbed a (sealed, fortunately) bottle of ale in his direction. Barely looking at it, Geralt reached out his arm and caught the bottle before it could nail him in the head.

“I would appreciate it if you would hand me my ale,” the shadowy man murmured.

“It almost hit me in the head,” Geralt glared at him. “You’ll get it when I get the corner table to myself, you broody git.”

“I was here first,” the other man grouched. “I will not suffer this insult lightly! Give me what I have paid for. That ale is mine.”

“I will,” Geralt snarled. _“When you give me the corner seat.”_

“The corner seat is mine to use as I wish, for I arrived at it first,” the shadowy man said firmly. “And this is your final warning. I want what’s mine. Give me my ale before something dramatic happens.”

“Like what?”

Geralt could have sworn he saw the hood _smile_. “Like this.”

The other man moved almost as swiftly as Geralt himself! He swooped over, grabbed the ale, and attempted to take it from the witcher’s hand, critically upsetting Geralt’s tankard of beer and spilling it all over the witcher. But Geralt’s reflexes were honed by a thousand fights and the training and mutagens that had made him what he was. He dodged one way, twisted another, and swept the other man’s feet out from under him. The hooded man grabbed on to Geralt’s belt and twisted in midair, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s and pinning him down to the floor.

Geralt peered up at him. The hood had been flung back, revealing shaggy dark hair that glinted with silver and piercing grey eyes. “The last time I was in this position, a beautiful sorceress had just attempted to make a djinn give her back her fertility.”

The other man snorted. “You smell like a beer barrel. Go take a bath.”

“Join me?” Geralt’s rakish grin elicited a laugh from the other man.

“I regret it, but I’m afraid I must decline,” he chuckled. “I have an appointment with an associate of very long acquaintance, dealing with an artefact currently in the possession of an exceedingly unusual family of halflings.” Twisting around a little, he extracted himself from the tangle with Geralt and stood up, extending a hand. “I’ll help you up, witcher. And once you hand over my ale, I shall be on my way, and you may have that corner table to yourself, for your brooding.”

Chuckling a little himself, Geralt accepted the other man’s hand up. “Very well, here’s your ale. Can I know the name of the man who can best a witcher in combat?”

The other man smiled enigmatically before pulling the hood back down over his face. “Call me Strider. And what is your name?”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Farewell, Geralt of Rivia,” Strider said, his voice cheerful. “May your road be as safe as a witcher’s path may be. Perhaps we may meet again.” And with that, he disappeared into the dark and stormy night.

Geralt flipped another coin to the tavern keeper, who was getting quite exasperated with the cavalier attitude that his patrons were displaying toward his coin and his wares. “Toss another coin at me, witcher, and witcher or not, you’ll be out on your arse,” he warned Geralt.

“Beer,” Geralt grouched at him contentedly, and settled in the corner seat to watch any other patrons who might wander in on this rather unusual tempestuous night.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic happened when I saw a post on Tumblr this afternoon that, um, inspired me. The prompt went thus:  
>  _argumate:  
>  what happens when two dramatic bitches like Geralt and Aragorn visit the same tavern on the same night and there’s only one corner table for them to brood at in a solitary fashion, would they take turns or share a booth while simply refusing to acknowledge each other’s existence_
> 
> And:
> 
> _callmebliss:_  
>  And there was only one corner table…!
> 
> So...there was only one corner table. And my twisted little mind had fun imagining what might happen. I hope you enjoyed. :)


End file.
